The Quality of Their Discourse
by SrslyNo
Summary: House and Wilson discuss plans for New Year's Eve. Spoilers for 6x10, plus a tiny bit of fluff.


_Disclaimer: Just playing with my House and Wilson dolls._

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Almost immediately after Wilson said, "Bonnie, I'll take it," there was an imperceptible shift of the earth's atmosphere. A few atoms of angst escaped from New Jersey's troposphere into the stratosphere. The occurrence nearly went unnoticed except for a ripple along a wing and dip to starboard on a passing 737 flying over Princeton.

Moving into the loft was like MSG for the spirit—added zest, but without the aftereffects.

House noticed during the holidays that the idiot count at the clinic had not gone down, but neither had it appreciably risen. The sky was bluer. The snow whiter.

While recuperating, Wilson observed on his daily walk to the newsstand, that small dogs did not yap at him, they smiled.

Neither shared their perceptions with the other.

Christmas left little imprint on their new digs, but worked magic on House and Wilson's goodwill. Their snarky conversations softened while their banter amped to new levels of playfulness, tipping into flirtation. Glares melted into contemplative looks.

With New Year's Eve a few days away, neither knew how to broach a discussion about plans for the upcoming evening. House spotted invitations addressed to Wilson scattered around the great room, but fanning through his own mail, found none for himself.

As Wilson checked the salmon baking in the oven and returned to the center island to whip the mashed potatoes, House picked up an envelope laying on the counter. With all the unconcern in the world House asked, "Which one are you going to?"

Wilson peered and pointed with his wooden spoon. "Not that one. It's from Bonnie—she told me she puts on a big bash at New Year's for her clients—all two of us."

Head down, House concentrated all his attention on the envelope, spinning it on the polished surface. "Which one then?"

"None." Wilson ran his hand over his stomach, looking as innocent as a baby. "Still taking it easy. What are your plans?"

"Lady Gaga promised to send me a ticket to her Miami concert, but you know what a tease she is. I'm not holding my breath."

"Celebrities." Wilson dropped the spoon back into the pot, shrugged, placed his hands on the counter, and focused his attention on House. "Fickle."

House felt the weight of Wilson's stare. The ball was in his court. "Suppose we could stay in. Is that ageless stroke victim still hosting New Year's Eve on TV?"

"Seacrest is starting to show his age," Wilson answered with a straight face.

"You could cook." House rattled off a gourmet list of recipes Wilson had experimented with in the past, but never made all at the same time. "Stuffed mushroom caps, crab legs, prime rib with horseradish, Yorkshire pudding, creamed spinach—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Wilson's face began filling with storm clouds as he took up the spoon and beat the potatoes to a creamy pulp. "Not your personal slave, House."

Not ready to give up his dream meal with Wilson, House tried making concessions. "I'll help. Give me your shopping list and I'll order it online, _plus_," emphasizing the word to show his benevolence, "pay for it with whatever credit card you give me."

House heard the utensil gyrating faster along the walls of the pot, the starchy vegetable liquefying into soup. He inwardly sighed. Apparently, his month-long rosy glow was about to wither into an arctic winter. "What?! What's so wrong with a ro—," he caught the last two syllables before they slipped out of his mouth, "—oast for New Year's?"

"It's not the prime rib, but all the rest. You're not happy until you have it all, are you?"

Potatoes abandoned, Wilson folded his arms in front of his chest. House noticed with relief that his friend did not display anger, but the oozing disappointment was barely a degree better.

"I-I thought we were turning over a new leaf. Leaving the doormat behind at A-Amber's place." Wilson faltered and swiped his hand over his face as he huffed a breath. Clearing his throat, he started anew, "Painting the table." He swept his hands out in front of him in a questioning gesture. "Nothing's changed between us? What am I? Chopped liver?"

House tried not to betray the twitch that pulled at the corners of his mouth. At least not right then. Not until he could see Wilson absorb the full meaning of his own words. Not until the penny dropped and glowing copper radiated from the brown eyes.

Only then did House make a wide-eyed, gawky expression and say, "Actually, you are."

Wilson's face cracked apart with a toothy grin and a bubbly chuckle escaped. He waived a hand in surrender and reached for his shopping list.

House's laugh blended with Wilson's, feeling confident that he could have it all. His eyes trailed over the near-empty but appealing room, noting how blindingly white the snow looked on the outside of the kitchen window.

_~fin~_

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_A/N: Couldn't resist a small reference from John Steinbeck's, Cannery Row about smiling dogs._


End file.
